Searing Pain
by anemille
Summary: Searing pain. But then that's nothing new.A Ros oneshot. Spoilers for 6x01, 6x02 and probable spoilers for 6x03.


Hi everyone, this is my first attempt at a Spooks fanfic, so I hope it's OK. There are SPOILERS for 6x01 and 6x02, and it is a oneshot based on the promo for 6x03 and some info from the 'Spooks Interactive' website. I haven't seen 6x03 but I know a little about the content of the episode, so you can assume (and I will too!) that some of the info is correct, meaning that there are also SPOILERS for 6x03.

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Searing pain. But then that's nothing new. Not when your name's Ros Myers anyway. After all, when you work for the British Security Services you can't escape pain; sometimes it's the only thing that keeps you anchored in reality. 

She's played a lot of parts in the past few years – victim, traitor, businesswoman, glamour girl, good cop, bad cop… usually bad cop. She's played fear too, a scared little girl with ten thousand unshed tears and everything to lose. Emphasis on 'played'. It was always a part, a role, a game… not this time.

She's still the ruthless, calculating spy she always was, but this time there is real fear there too. She can feel it mixing with the adrenalin that usually takes its place. But adrenalin and fear mix like oil and water and she knows that this time is different, because there's no plan, no team and no rules. It's step into the unknown and she allows herself to feel the fear, the pain, because if it all ends right here, right now, then it would be better to have felt it. After all, she is a perfectionist and, she almost smiles through the gag, she wants to get this right. That's the way, Ros. Make it a game.

And there are only 22 hours to hold out until Adam will begin to suspect that something's up. 22 hours. Only a tiny sliver of time in the grand scheme of things, if you think about it. And she does. She has the time, after all. 22 hours of it.

* * *

"Is your name Ros Myers?" 

The lightly accented voice does nothing to soothe the fear. But then that wouldn't make any sense.

"Yes."

Eyes ahead, steady and unblinking, hands still, lightly gripping the chair. She's playing the part of model prisoner, and it's easy, she's done it before.

"Did Section D have anything to do with the bomb in Tehran?"

She almost laughs. Getting serious now are we? She laughs because it's almost funny. Almost.

"No."

Calm, one-syllable answers. Elaboration seems pointless – one word does the job just fine. And that's how she tells herself she's doing. Just fine. And only 20 hours left. That's her best guess anyway. 20 long hours.

* * *

There's a bitter taste in her mouth from the gag, a sting from where it was ripped off, an expressionless mouth, but silently smiling eyes. She knows that this isn't good, but calling it a coping mechanism. In her game she's doing well – giving nothing away but causing no aggravation, no trouble. Because she knows she doesn't need to create extra trouble, things are beginning to heat up and sooner or later she knows it'll come calling. 

The questions have stopped for now and she held out well, she must have done because they've moved on. The torture has begun. Shocks every so often, and she's almost certain that they are electricity not shivers. But then you can never tell – get too absorbed in your games and nothing matters, nothing feels anymore. She only feels cold. Cold, and that lingering sense of fear, clinging stubbornly to the innermost corners of her mind.

She can feel moisture on her forehead. But she can't remember whether it's water or sweat. She's pretending like it doesn't matter, because in this game help is only minutes away. Yeah, Adam, a loaded gun and a dozen armed back up officers sounds good right about now. Charging in, guns blazing and witty quip. Yeah, that sounds good.

But it's alright; if they don't come everything will be alright because she's been trained to withstand this for hours, days, even weeks at a time.

And besides, there are only 17 hours left. And with each second that ticks past, the end of this nightmare comes a little closer.

* * *

"What about Zaf Younis? Was he involved with the bomb?" 

Her eyes slide back into focus. The French agent is talking again. It takes a moment for her brain to catch up with her ears, another for an answer to form on her lips. Luckily it's a short one, easy to say, even if it is a lie.

"No."

But lying is easy now. It's what this business is all about. Uncovering the liars and protecting your own lies, all whilst acting the part. Her eyelids flicker in amusement: she should have been an actor.

* * *

Her eyes are smarting from the brilliance of the sunshine, her bones aching and muscles stiffening with every blind step she takes, and her head… her head's spinning with weight of all she's heard in the past 9 hours behind it. 9 hours was all it took to be free. And to be honest, she would almost rather she wasn't: she has a million questions that require a lifetime's worth of answers. And she has a heavy, conflicted conscience. Her morals are fighting, snarling, tearing each other limb from metaphorical limb… Secret agent, double agent… double-double agent? It's all too much right now. The fear is long gone, but the memory of it remains, burnt into her brain, into the backs of her eyes. She doesn't like it. And she knows she has to make the right choice now, because she doesn't want to feel it ever again.

* * *

She much preferred her position 24 hours ago. When she was an actress, just playing a part, she didn't have to worry about consequences or the aftermath. Someone else would deal with that. And could deal with that, far better than she could. But now the stakes were higher. She was about to make a real decision that would affect real people… and with the first tequila shot the actress inside her slipped away and the ruthless, calculating spy bleached her heart again. 

Yes, she thought, yes. That was the right decision. The one that the spy would make. Because reality had come hurtling back: she was a spy, a 'spook', not an actor. And the decision had stuck her like a blow, like pain. And so the cycle starts again with a strike of pain. Searing pain.


End file.
